A Suitable Distraction
by Kick Flaw
Summary: Hermione is stressed, depressed and bordering on obsessed when along comes just the distraction she needs...WARNING: SMUT femslash. Pansy/Hermione


Oooooh, exclusive Veela post. Don't you guys feel special? Read it, you * know * you want to.

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Title: A Suitable Distraction

Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)

Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, Harry/Draco archive, my site: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/kick_flaw 

Pairing(s): Pansy/Hermione, inferred H/D

Rating: R 

Warnings: femslash

Feedback: Worshipped.

Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it. 

Notes: Ummmm. I was inspired and there's a lack of it in the fandom? Oh, I haven't read it yet. Beware.

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A Suitable Distraction

Hermione clenched her fist around her quill and tried to keep the spinning calligraphy straight in her vision. The words of her paper blurred and twisted, like inked snakes in a drawing enchanted to mimic life. She blinked wearily and cast a weak magic detection spell on herself, just to be safe. You never knew nowadays, what with deatheaters and dementors and *Slytherins * around every corner. Nothing. Ok, she was fine. No, check that, she was over-stressed, exhausted, bordering on depressed, and highly paranoid. She most definitely was not 'fine'. 

It was just that the sixth year NEWTS were coming up. Everyone knew that potential employers looked at sixth year more seriously than any other, including seventh. After all, who * didn't * slack off and make a last ditch effort to enjoy their fading youth seventh year? Not counting Percy. But then, Percy was already a counselor on the Ministry Board of Tried and True Magic. Where she wanted to be in three years with the Board of Experimental Magic. Actually, she had no intention of slacking off seventh year.

But that didn't stop the world of adult employment from regarding sixth as the most crucial. 

She * had * to surpass herself this year. She had to work like a Dwarf lusting after that glimmer of gold in his head. And it was draining her far more than anything else ever had, this constant apprehension, this obsessive need to do more, better, faster. She'd taken on extra credit essays in every class, gone on special searches for obscure herbs, stayed after to help Snape test out his new Grease-B-Gone hair potion, and even volunteered to tutor the struggling second years in Transfiguration. Ron and Harry had seen so little of her they were beginning to claim she didn't exist outside of class. But the compulsion wouldn't leave her, the worry and ambition molding inside her head so she couldn't tell them apart anymore. And it seemed to be killing her. 

Hermione shook her head to clear it and gulped down another drought of pumpkin juice, before returning to staring fruitlessly at her research paper for Arithmancy. Stacks of books crowded her desk, randomly interspersed with used up ink bottles, crumpled former attempts, extra parchment and the foil wrappings of many an energy bar. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, her lips tinned over the line of tightly clenched teeth. Her hands were shaking. 

Honestly, she couldn't tell why she didn't just give up. Deep down she knew her friends and teachers were right when they told her she couldn't get any better. She led in all but one of her classes (goddamn Draco Malfoy and his blasted knack for Arithmancy). There was no way she could fail. There was no way she couldn't top the all-time charts for NEWT scores next month. Sometimes she thought she knew * too * much, and yet… 

And yet, whenever she tried to relax her heart would pound. Her mind would boil over with the thought: 'Oh god, why aren't I doing anything? Think of what I could be achieving!' and she found herself overcome with self-loathing, calling herself lazy, inattentive, shirking. Nothing she'd tried had distracted her from the fixation of success. Not just success, complete, uncontested, awesome success. Why couldn't she just relax?

A question that plagued her throughout all of her studying, one she realized she had no answer. Hermione closed her eyes, troubled. What she needed was a good distraction. Something that would take her mind away from it all. But other than drugs, there was nothing that could ever do that. Even her sleep she was haunted by dreams of failure, and awoke only more driven. 

Rubbing her temples, Hermione screwed her eyes so tightly closed colors flashed across the back of eyelids. Then she opened them quickly, trying to pull them wide enough that the strange, unfocused dizziness distorting them escaped or fell out or * something *. More colors flashed. 

When they cleared, she let out a sharp screech. Her chair rocked unsteadily, thrown out of whack by her jerk of fright, but she recovered her balance quickly enough, and, slamming her hands down on the table to catch herself, managed to rattle that as well. A pile of books swayed and crashed to floor. Sitting directly across from her, Pansy Parkinson blinked innocently.

"My, my, aren't we tense tonight?" she murmured. The petite blonde leaned forward so her elbows rested on the table and cradled her chin in her palms, observing Hermione blandly.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Parkinson had just been…there. Out of nowhere, as if she'd apparated! Knowing the Slytherins and their general disregard for rules, she probably had. Her pride wouldn't allow her to entertain the notion that the other girl had sneaked up on her --really, after all the years spent monitoring Harry, her instincts had to be better than that. * Especially * when it came to a Slytherin. 

Schooling her expression into one of mild disdain, the over-worked Gryffindor picked up her quill primly and arched an eyebrow. "Why, if I may inquire, have you invaded my study space?" 

If she had to deal with this right now, she might as well pretend to be functionally studying. 

"Last time I checked the Library was free to all students." Parkinson said and tapped the fingers of her right hand against her cheekbone, the motion drawing Hermione's haughty gaze to the high arch of it. The rhythmic flicker of Parkinson's fingers was both distracting and soothing; Hermione had to blink to tear her tired eyes away.

"And when was the last time you checked? Orientation?" she bit off, desperately wanting the other girl to go away.

Parkinson chuckled, lifting her head and fiddling with a worn down, discarded quill. "Actually, two days ago. I was here helping Colin brush up on his…penetratus charms."

Oh yuck. "Colin Creevey?"

"That would be the one."

Hermione grimaced, moving her gaze from the soft feather quill flitting through the air with another blink. "As fascinating as your escapades are, Parkinson, I don't have time for this. Why don't you go do whatever it is you for fun and leave me to my library? It bores you utterly, I'm sure."

"Tsk, tsk." The blonde girl shook the quill at Hermione, scolding, her eyes amused. "Aren't we a little more mature than the boys, Hermione? Call me Pansy."

"Even so." 

"And what makes you think the Library would bore me?" Pansy continued. "I happen to have my own project to work on, you realize, one that requires me to be here right now."

Hermione looked pointedly at the other desks. "Unless you're taking a survey of people more intelligent than you, * Pansy *, there are quite a few empty tables for you to work at."

Pansy pouted and lifted the quill against her cheek, idly caressing. "Well aren't we snippy? Here I am, making a real attempt to be nice, and you go and insult me. Honestly, I'd think that for someone so 'intelligent', making a statement based on an assumption would be close to blasphemy. How do you know I'm not intelligent?"

Well, as much as she hated to admit it, the girl had a point. Her words were a fallacy. Damn, she hadn't expected Pansy to catch that. Would surprises never cease? She sighed.

"My apologies. You're quite welcome to work on your project here as long as you refrain from distracting me again." If the best defense is a good offense than hell, she figured the best offense is a good defense. 

But Pansy took what she'd hoped would be a surprising invitation in stride, dragging the soft tip of the feather casually from her temple to her jaw, where she played it lingeringly on her throat, and smiling. Hermione gulped and tried not to watch its slow progress over the pale skin. Not now, she couldn't deal with this now –especially not with Parkinson of all people. Parkinson was to Draco was she was to Harry, the female counterpoint. Their rivalry was softer, more subtle and diluted. It existed, but with less of that singularly masculine blundering violence. And yet it was equally intense. If she ever, * ever *…

--No. But the gentle feather was slipping ever downward… No. But it was dipping into the shadow of her collar… No! But it was racing back upward, drifting across her pale, poised, parted…lips… NO! 

Hermione jerked back, running a hand through her hair, frazzled and breathing quickly. She closed her eyes and ignored the sound of Pansy's breath, which seemed to be coming as quickly as hers to her wishful mind. But there was no use getting her hopes up. They would be crushed anyway, as twisted as they were.

After a short interval she gained marginal control of her body, fixing her angry gaze on Pansy's and snarling: "I don't see you working, Parkinson."

"You don't see much, do you?"

Pansy was staring back, her thickly lashed eyes burning with blue intensity. She dropped the quill abruptly. 

What…what was going on? Hermione blinked at the Slytherin regarding her violently from across her stacks of extra work. It was a new territory they were stepping into, a different version of their hostility. It reminded her of the way the boys fought, with a deeply rooted, passionate fierceness underlying every snide comment. But that feeling was bizarre when it came to she and Pansy. They were so much more refined in their digs. It was all she could do; she couldn't handle any passion between them. She'd crack. Because her passion was different from the boys. So different…

"Why don't you go molest some fourth years, Parkinson, and leave me alone?" she said, shifting uncomfortably, steering them onto the familiar track. 

Only things never work out the easy way.

"No." Pansy said firmly, standing up. "I'd rather molest you." And leaning across the table, palms flat to bracing her weight, she knocked their lips together.

Hermione had only been kissed once in her life. Viktor Krumm, fourth year, and it had been a good kiss. He'd been very thorough, very considerate --she'd enjoyed it greatly. Except for one minor problem: it forgot to spark her insides. Really, wasn't that the purpose of a kiss? Kisses were a prelude. They were supposed to make you crave the rest, make you fantasize about what came next, make you forget everything except the presence of too many blasted clothes. Real kisses anyway. Real kisses were like tears. They couldn't be stopped. 

And with Viktor, while she'd delighted in the sensation, the kiss had done none of that. He'd known it, she'd known it, and they'd chalked it up to the 'just friends' syndrome. It wasn't until fifth year that she'd realized, to her horror, that it was much, much more than that.

And now her insides were twisting into knots of fire, sizzling and melting out through the pores of her flesh. Pansy's mouth crashed against hers in a kiss that was more like an unstoppable force than the mere meeting of lips. Hermione felt a vortex sucking at her mind, making her crave, making her fantasize, making her forget. She gathered the curls spilling over Pansy's shoulder and tugged them gently. They stretched straight and bounced back into their spirals all within her hands. She kissed * back *.

Suddenly the other girl pushed away, returning to her side of the desk in a single motion.

"Wait!" Hermione cried and nearly threw herself out of her chair. But Pansy had hoisted her body up onto the table, sending books and papers tumbling as she slid across it and encountered Hermione full force on the other side. Their mouths slanted together once more. 

Pansy was sitting on the desk, her wrists resting on Hermione's shoulders, her hands gripping her jaw, as she leaned back and pulled the Gryffindor into her. Hermione stumbled forward between the other girls parted legs. For the second time in her life, she felt another persons tongue tangling with her own, only this time she couldn't hold back the sounds. With a whimper, she fisted her hands in the skirt of the robe covering Pansy's thighs and drew them farther apart. Pansy moaned in turn, at the fit of their bodies, at the sheer glory in flowing together so roughly, at the disappointment that they'd never given into it before this.

They stayed like that for longer than Hermione could tell, just tangled ardently in robes and each other. Kissing softly at times and drawing blood with teeth at others. Becoming friends through their mouths. Friends slowly, and lastly. Hermione thought, in the times when they slipped apart to breathe, that they'd always been friends. 

After the torment of consolidating what should have been years of intimacy into one kiss, they pressed their foreheads together --panting and sharing breaths like theirs was the only oxygen left in the universe. But that moment of peaceful camaraderie was just that. A moment.

Hermione scooped the bottom of Pansy's robes in her arms and hoisted them up and off with much cursing. Pansy laughed at her, but it was an adoring laugh, not a mocking one. Once they were off, she stretched languorously, presenting her body like a gift for the playing. After all, the unwrapping had already been done. 

And Hermione forgot to care when her carefully inked essay crumpled beneath them. 

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So there. Replies would be nice…


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